


Cruelty Beyond Imagination

by PenelopeAbigail



Series: Whumptober 2020 [24]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Captivity, Dark, Day 24, Forced Mutism, Gen, I have never gone this dark before, Implied/Referenced Torture, Not for the faint of heart, Whump, Whumptober 2020, You're Not Making Any Sense, and thats saying something if you've read any of my macgyver fics, hurt!Peter, seriously, turn back now, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeAbigail/pseuds/PenelopeAbigail
Summary: Spider-Man was dead, had been for some time. MJ knew it. So why was this man saying he wasn't?
Series: Whumptober 2020 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955698
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Cruelty Beyond Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> Day 24
> 
> I've tortured characters before, of course, but I've never tortured anyone this badly or to this extreme.  
> If you've read my MacGyver fic It Was Four Seconds, then you know I can lay on the pain, but what happens to Peter is worse than what I did to Mac.
> 
> Torture is, however, off-screen and only implied here.
> 
> Beware.

New York was in chaos.

Spider-Man was gone, and everybody knew it.

After the first five days, everybody thought he was just sick, getting over the flu or something. MJ knew better.

Then, everybody thought he was just tired, took a vacation, needed some off time. MJ knew better.

Two weeks with no Spider-Man and all the criminals upped their game, knowing he wasn’t around to stop them, so what should they be afraid of? Hammerhead was the one who spread the rumors about Spider-Man quitting instead of leaving.

Much to MJ’s chagrin, the Daily Bugle ran the story for three days straight, first on the front page, then page three, then page eight: _Spider-Man gives up. Spider-Man quit. Spider-Man abandoned us._

MJ knew better.

Some agree with Hammerhead, that Spider-Man quit, maybe moved to a different city, and was helping them out there. Some say he just decided to live a normal life, settled down, and got married. Some say he got hurt somehow, that he _can’t_ save people anymore.

And some say he’s dead. MJ didn’t know better.

All she knew was that Peter was supposed to meet her at the park for her birthday, had called to tell her he would be late because he was on the east side of Queens, but _he was coming_ —and she heard it over the call, the wind rushing past him, his slightly strained voice because he was swinging. He was coming.

But he never showed. She’d been mad at him for a while, hadn’t texted or called, not until she realized that he hadn’t either.

He’d been gone three days when May called her, worried sick. Peter hadn’t come home in a while (this was while he was between apartments and down on money, staying with May until he could get his feet back under him).

That was when her frustration fizzled away and concern took root.

The growing rumors only made it worse.

Pete wasn’t sick, he’d have said something, and May wouldn’t have called. Pete wasn’t on vacation because after seven years of round-the-clock saving people, he wouldn’t randomly up and leave.

Pete was just gone.

After ten days of Peter’s (Spider-Man’s) absence, May filed a Missing Person report.

MJ didn’t know what to do: should she clean out his room and stuff, hide all possible evidence of Spider-Man so no one found out, or should she leave them, let the police know, and hope they could help track him down?

In the end, she hid his stuff, figuring that if he hadn’t been able to leave a trace or message or escape at all, then the police had no hope of finding him anyway.

Gradually, the crime rate had increased, the city became more dangerous, and the only semi-pro-Spider-Man article that she could convince JJJ to push was hers.

_It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone._

The crime got worse, got more desperate, more sloppy, and MJ took notice.

She knew that there was a pattern to it all— _controlled_ chaos. She could see that it was becoming organized, literally, and where there was organized crime, there was a crime boss. Someone was taking control of the city, all over the area, all over New York, because it didn’t just stop in Manhattan. It spread to Brooklyn, to Queens, to The Bronx.

Someone had taken charge after Spider-Man’s disappearance and was using armed robberies, staged kidnappings, and petty crime to keep the population in fear and in check. This someone was bigger than the maggia, maybe even bigger than Fisk.

The police were falling apart without Spider-Man, barely keeping themselves alive with the increase of violence.

People were afraid to leave their homes, not just at night, but in the day, too.

MJ was afraid.

MJ was more afraid than anybody else because she knew Spider-Man. She knew he hadn’t simply left. She was afraid he had been killed.

But her duties as a reporter didn’t suddenly end because her best friend went missing—a lot of people were going missing, maybe being kidnapped by gangs, running away from home in all the chaos, even _joining_ the gangs—so she took up more hours, worked her butt off around-the-clock. If she could figure out who the new crime boss was, she might be able to find Peter— _or his body_.

After all, Spider-Man goes AWOL and suddenly there’s a new boss in town? Coincidence? MJ didn’t think so.

~

“You’re mistaken.”

“I’m not, so please answer the question.”

He sighed, “I’d hate to get the Big Guy involved over such a small matter.”

“It’s a simple question, yes or no.”

“Please leave. I don’t want to hurt you.”

If she wasn’t used to this treatment, she’d be very frustrated, but as she _was_ , she _wasn’t_.

“You’re not going to hurt me by just answering the question. Now, did you, or did you not see Spider-Man that night?”

He ignored her, pulled a cell from his pocket, and sent a quick text. Most likely alerting others of her imposing presence.

She was in trouble, definitely needed to leave, so she nodded, didn’t want to just straight-up high-tail it in case he reacted violently.

Backing away slowly, she distracted him with words, “You did, didn’t you? It’d be so easy to deny it, but you can’t.”

He noticed, darted toward her, yelling, “Hey!”

She tried to run, but he was bigger and faster, caught her by the arm.

She should have been scared, should have been _terrified_ , knowing Spider-Man wasn’t out and about and couldn’t save her, couldn’t come when she needed him. She should have run sooner.

But she wasn’t scared.

This could lead her to answers—even though this guy hadn’t answered, that in itself kinda told her what she needed to know. He had seen Spider-Man the night he disappeared, and since henchmen traveled in packs, there were more who saw him, more who could give her answers.

It’d been a while and no one has found the body yet—even taking decay into consideration, MJ knew what Pete made the suits out of, and that suit wouldn’t just _decay_. There were definitely answers to her questions. His murder wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t to show off or there’d be a body. It was a mystery.

The murder of Spider-Man was hidden, covered up. Why had the murderer not shown the world what happened? Was the murderer ashamed of what he’d done? Had it truly been an accident and the poor perpetrator just wanted to be free of it entirely and had hidden the body?

Was this crime boss keeping the secret to keep hope alive? Without a body, there were still some who believed that Spider-Man would return, would come back and save them. Did the murderer _not_ intend to take away all hope?

_Why was it a secret?_

This henchman wouldn't have dragged her if she hadn’t kept up with him—he’d meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt her—and they were heading indoors. This hotel used to be marvelous but now it sort of lost its light after Stevens took over.

Yeah, Ryan Stevens, the most American name to seize power in this city. Who would have thought?

He was the son of lawyer Henry Stevens who died some four months ago by falling down some stairs. It was a conspiracy. MJ speculated that the father had been in charge of some shady, underground business that Ryan the son wanted. Ryan must have killed his father, bribed it away, and seized control of the family _business_. From there, he must have killed Spider-Man to take out his biggest threat— _but something must have gone wrong, evidence was left on the body or something, so instead of showing the world that Spider-Man was dead, Ryan had to cover it up so as to not be indicted._

It was all coming together!

But was Ryan the one who did the deed, or had it been a henchman?

This guy _gently_ led her into the elevator, and they ascended to the penthouse.

Ryan Stevens was a young guy, barely older than herself, so it wasn’t like she was dealing with a wise and hardened Mob Boss. So whatever was going on, it shouldn’t be hard to get to the bottom of it.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and she was led around the corner into a comfortable-looking living room.

There on the sofa sat Henry Stevens in sweats and a Harvard T-shirt, cradling a bowl of cereal. He muted the TV and turned to face her.

He wasn’t dead.

She wasn’t dealing with Ryan, but his father, _who was supposed to be dead._

He spoke first, “I was told you’ve been causing trouble?” He took a bite. It was Captain Crunch.

She answered, “I was only asking a question, and your man wasn’t answering.”

“Hmm,” he swallowed, “Then maybe you should have gone away.”

She shook her head, “No. It’s an important question, and since you’re clearly not dead—” he turned back to her, actually paid attention to her after she said that, and yes, sir, she knew who he was, she wasn’t just some random little girl asking too many questions, “—you mind answering them for me instead?”

He set his cereal on the coffee table and stood up, perhaps trying to be intimidating, but failing because no one could be intimidating while wearing _that_.

“Young Lady, I’m going to be frank with you.”

“Thank-you.”

“Who are you, and why do you think I should be dead?”

“I’m Mary Jane Watson, and I wrote a news article about your death four months ago when you, and I quote your son, ‘fell down the stairs’.”

She smiled.

He frowned, dissatisfied.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He shooed her away, and that was a bit insulting.

“I’m not going anywhere until you give me what I want.” She planted her feet, but the henchman from before gently grabbed her arm again.

“Yes, you are,” Stevens responded, smiling like he was the one with all the power.

“If I leave without answers, I’ll write a story about how you’re alive and killed Spider-man.”

The henchman wasn’t even tugging, just letting her talk.

Stevens responded, “No one will believe it. Everyone knows I’m dead.”

She shook her head, “Then I’ll write about how your son is operating an illegal drug ring that he inherited from you when he _killed you._ ”

He scoffed, “Lies! You won’t even be allowed to print such a wild accusation without evidence.”

It was MJ’s turn to smile, “ _Please_! I work for the Daily Bugle.”

He frowned again, took a moment to compose himself before lifting his chin.

“What do you want?”

“Just answer my questions,” She shook her head because that was all she wanted, just answers, “Did you or did you not kill Spider-Man?”

He smirked, “I did not, nor did any of my employees.”

She nodded, turned to the man beside her, “Now, was that so hard?”

But Stevens added, “Because he’s not dead.”

She froze.

Yes, he was. Not dead implies that Pete was alive, and if Pete was alive, then he wouldn’t have abandoned the city, abandoned May, abandoned _her_.

Of course, he was dead. Where else— _oh…_

She turned around, brows pinched, “ _What?”_

He simply sat back down and reached for his bowl, “You understand that because you’ve seen my face, you can’t be allowed to leave, yes?”

She was at a loss for words. That hadn’t happened in a while. The henchman was tugging on her arm now, and she stumbled backward, still staring openly at Stevens.

He just reached for the remote and said, “Mark, put her in the basement," he hummed, and the sounds from the TV filled the room, but over it, she heard him add, "Company will be nice.”

Mark replied, “Yes, sir,” and dragged her resisting body away.

She wasn’t expecting this.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Now she needed to figure out how to escape. They hadn’t even checked her pocket for weapons— _she still had her phone!! Robbie knew she was here, so if she goes missing, he’ll know where to look!_

In the elevator, she had the privacy and opportunity to speak to this kind henchman.

“Men in your position aren’t normally kind to hostages, so I want to say thank-you.”

He looked down at her, edges of his frown turning up slightly, but she continued, not giving him time to answer, “But _please_ , Spider-Man’s not dead? How?”

“Please, miss,” he said to her, tone downtrodden and hopeless, “No more questions. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She wasn’t going to get anything out of him, so maybe when she had an opportunity to speak to someone else, she could pry the truth from him.

When the doors opened, she was slightly shocked to see them on the ground floor, facing the front entrance, but she understood what was happening when he pulled her to the left and down a hallway. He opened the door to a janitor’s closet and pulled her in behind him—for a split second, she was afraid he was going to hurt her somehow, but then she saw the extra door and realized.

There was a different man she was handed off to, perhaps the guard of the secret door?

Her henchman said to the other henchman, “Boss said he needed company.”

The new henchman smiled in a way that disturbed her, sent a chill down her spine, and immediately, she knew this man was off his rocker.

He opened the door and she started forward, descending the stairs before she could be thrown down them, didn’t like the sound of the door closing behind them.

She suddenly didn’t want to be alone with this new guy. He gripped her arm with a force that was completely unnecessary, and she said so, “Ow, that’s too hard, can you ease up a bit?”

He hummed, and replied, voice as if he was smelling a fresh pie, ecstasy, “Ah, backtalk. You sound just like he did.” He smiled.

What the crap did that mean?

Just like him—just like _who? Spider-Man?_ Did he have Pete down here?

“Are you keeping Spider-Man down here?”

He hummed and nodded, releasing his grip and shoving her forward, down the last couple steps.

Was he on drugs or something?

She caught herself easily and stood up straight, preparing herself for what could be on the other side of the door.

This basement wasn’t on any blueprints—she’d looked them up before coming here, thinking maybe she would need to sneak in somehow. This was a secret passageway, taking her somewhere she hoped wasn’t completely and terribly awful. Most likely, it’d be a room where the employees—or as Mary Jane liked to call them, _henchmen_ —took their breaks, away from prying eyes, probably played poker in a dimly lit room.

It was a prison. Literally.

From the stairs, it appeared to be simple hotel rooms, numbers on the doors and everything. But looking closer, she noticed the large mail-slots, the peepholes, the absent door handles.

These were cells, and she was being marched to the very back.

There was little noise; the doors must be insulated or something because the crying she heard from the first room was muffled _wailing_.

“Do you torture people down here?”

He just smiled and took a peep through one of the doors, nodding slightly.

That was upsetting. Pete was hopefully down here. Had he been tortured, too?

And that wailing, it was definitely young, definitely a child. Surely, they didn’t torture _children_ , did they?

She took a look through a hole to see that, yes, there was a child in there, fifteen perhaps, naked and covered in bruises. She was disgusted.

She spun around at him, accused, “You _torture children?”_

He gripped her arm again and kept them moving toward the back, “Mhmm, yes. They must learn to obey.”

_What the ever-loving—_

“ _Obey?_ That’s a child in there! How can you torture a child?”

She knew she was just spinning in circles, but it was a terrible thing that was happening, absolutely awful and disgusting.

_Who could torture a child?_

_He_ could. He was messed up. _Off_ , wasn’t he?

“Because it’s fun!” He exclaimed, proud of himself, proud of his cruelty and sadism, and opened the door for her, but she couldn’t move, just stood there staring at him.

Her expression slowly morphed from anger and disgust into terror, pure terror.

He wasn’t just crazy, off his rocker, cracked. No. He was worse.

She’d never seen this up close before. Yes, she’d seen evil people, bad people, had asked them questions and interviewed them, but never any so _psychotic_. This man actually _enjoyed_ hurting people, _hurting children_.

She was in danger.

She was in _so much danger_. What if no one came for her? What if she never escaped? Would she be tortured, too? She would, wouldn’t she…

That man laughed at her horrified face, laughed as she backed away from him and into the room, laughed as he slammed the metal door to echo around her new cell.

She could hear that laughter as he walked away, could imagine his head thrown back in glee.

MJ had never been so afraid in her life.

This wasn’t happening.

This couldn’t be happening.

This was all just a bad dream.

She spun around, trying to survey the room, and failing. It was completely dark, but there was a switch by the door she’d noticed before he’d closed it, and she felt around for it.

The walls were metal, too, slick and cool, but the switch was there, easy to find, and the lights flickered on, dull and dim.

She turned around to see what she was dealing with—and flinched back in surprise.

There was a body in here.

Her heart pounded.

There was a _dead body_ right in front of her.

Her breathing sped up.

They’d shoved her in a room with a dead body.

Her back hit the wall before she even realized she’d been backing up, still staring at the body, naked and covered in blood, so much blood, but she was staring at it unblinking and noticed it flinch when she hit the wall.

It had moved.

She was shoved in a room with a zombie.

Her heart was going to leap out of her chest, and she held her breath, staying as quiet as she could—and in the silence, she heard it. The whimper, the whine.

Then it twitched again, shuddering violently, and she noticed it was breathing—zombies don’t breathe, do they? So this man was still alive— _of course, it wasn’t a zombie, MJ, you idiot, zombies don’t exist._

How was this man _alive_? There was blood everywhere, so much blood. How could anybody survive— _no one could survive this, but one person, and she knew that person, and that person had been dead for_ weeks _—_ and she remembered from a few minutes ago, Stevens had said Spider-Man wasn’t dead, and then said that _he_ needed company, and MJ just thought he’d been talking about strippers or something, but he meant that _Spider-Man_ needed company, needed _her_ company—

She darted forward, sliding through the blood, and collapsing to her knees by his head, reaching to brush the greasy and matted hair from his face—but he flinched back, eyes wide and scared and making distressed noises, noises that sounded almost like he was trying to say _no_ over and over— _she knew what that sounded like, he had nightmares more frequently than most, and she’s heard him say those exact words many times, so she knew what they sounded like._

But he was barely moving— _no, shit, Sherlock, look at all the blood—_ barely twitching, and as she smoothed his hair back—“Spidey? Spidey!” She said, knowing full well not to use his real name, had trained herself against it years ago so she wouldn’t slip in moments like these—he squeezed his eyes closed as more than a few tears leaked down his face.

She realized five things all at once:

1) He was completely naked which meant that Stevens was probably keeping the suit as a trophy and/or had wanted him naked for some nefarious purpose.

2) There was blood everywhere, which meant that at one point, there were injuries that spilled that blood, which meant obviously he’d been tortured, and not very nicely.

3) He’d been tortured, quite a lot, and her touch and presence were probably unwelcome and terrifying to him.

4) His face was messed up, only _resembling_ Peter, and it was about his jaw, something was wrong with his jaw.

5) He wasn’t moving his mouth, or opening his mouth, or speaking, or anything, so there was something wrong with his mouth.

She sat back, giving him some space, and waited for him to calm down.

She watched as the tears stopped, as his breathing evened out, and as he opened his eyes to see her.

“It’s me,” she said as happily as she could, given the circumstances, “it’s MJ. I’m here.”

She gazed at him, taking him all in, studying that face that she thought she was never going to see again.

“I thought you were dead, Spidey, I’m so sorry.”

Her gazed narrowed in on the underside of his jaw, his chin. It was swollen, out of place or something, but not discolored. The bone wasn’t smooth, wasn’t following his natural jawline, and she needed to take a closer look, needed him to tilt his head up.

What was wrong with his mouth?

He was making noises, sounded like he was trying to talk, but they were high pitched and agonizing and made her so, so sad.

Something was wrong with his jaw, he couldn’t open it.

Had it broken and then healed wrong?

She inched closer, and he looked at her, gazing into her eyes, and tears trailed down his face again. His arm twitched, and she thought he was going to reach up and touch her, but he didn’t, he just laid there, and she looked down at his blood-coated hand, was going to bring it up to her face so he could cradle it like he used to.

But she saw something, under all the blood, something slightly elongated, sticking out of his knuckle—there was a nail— _or, no wait, a screw, it was a Philip's Head_ —piercing the joint between his bones, piercing through to the other side. He couldn’t bend his finger—and once she saw it, she couldn’t unsee it, couldn’t _not_ see them everywhere, all over his body, hiding under the blood— _and oh, that’s where all the blood was coming from_.

Each joint in his fingers, through his elbows and knees, and _oh, God, his shoulder was all manners of mangled._

He wasn’t moving because _he couldn’t move_.

He literally couldn’t bend a single joint.

She gently and slowly felt along his neck and back, and finding nothing, thankful that they had left those nerves alone. That likely would have killed him if they had. She gently angled his face up, lifting his chin so she could see what was— _oh, yeah, there was a screw, one on each side, resembling a messed up Frankenstein's monster._

She could see the head, but it was lodged up there good. Looks like it shattered bone on its way, his jaw swollen as if it already healed over… the bone…

She sat back in shock, finally taking it all in.

Peter was alive.

_Peter was alive!_

Peter was alive and naked and crying in front of her, and he’d been missing for over a month. She thought he was dead! But he wasn’t. He was just being ruthlessly _tortured_.

These complete and total psychopaths had tortured him, silenced him, maimed him.

The love of her life couldn’t move, couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t touch her.

Could she even comfort him? Could she bring any sort of relief at all?

Did he even know it was her and not his captors? Did he know that she wasn’t going to hurt him?

Her hands were in her lap as she looked at him, and when the tears dripped into her upturned palms, she ignored them. He was crying too, it was okay.

She gently took his hand, lifting until she felt the slightest resistance, laying his hand sandwiched between hers.

He couldn’t move, so she’d move for him.

She sat there for all of five minutes before she remembered that she had her phone on her.

There was still service, so she called the police immediately, well, Yuri’s number. Pete had given it to her in case of super emergencies, and this was the first time she’d ever had to use it.

“Yuri Watanabe.”

“Captain, please listen to me. This is Mary Jane Watson of the Daily Bugle. I’m being illegally detained in a secret basement through a closet in The Mark—“

“I’ll direct your call to the 911 operators. They’ll be able to help you faster—“

“No, _please_ , I’ve found Spider-Man. It has to be you.”

Yuri was silent for only two beats. MJ added, “He’s hurt very badly, but they might kill us if police show up.”

“So he’s not dead?”

Like MJ, Yuri knew Spider-Man too well to know that he would never have abandoned the city.

“No, but he—he…” She took a breath, “He’s been tortured very badly. He can’t help us right now.”

She heard Yuri gasp, could imagine her turning away in pain at the words.

Yuri responded, “I’m on my way. We’ll get you both to safety. Give me some time to figure this out.”

The call was ended, and MJ went back to comforting Pete.

She took her scarf off, folded it up, and began gently wiping at the blood.

She found him. He was alive. He would never be okay again, but he was alive.

They waited.

**Author's Note:**

> This concept had been playing in my mind for a while, so it may or may not continue.  
> I'd LIKE to continue it, but look what happened to Teddy Bears, or Take the Light, or Lost Without Being Found.  
> Don't get your hopes up is all I'm saying.


End file.
